LEAVING LAS VEGAS BOOK

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Leaving Las Vegas book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Leaving Las Vegas, the first novel by John O'Brien, is a disturb. Leaving Las Vegas is the strongest and most extreme look at alcohol I've ever read. This book moved and bothered me and weeks later it is still in my mind. Leaving Las Vegas [John O'Brien] on chrisfalgocaput.cf *FREE* shipping on The site Book Review Author interviews, book reviews, editors' picks, and more.


Leaving Las Vegas Book

Author:ALBERTHA SIDDONS
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Published (Last):19.08.2016
ISBN:682-5-60227-535-6
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Leaving Las Vegas is a semi-autobiographical novel by John O'Brien. The novel was Print/export. Create a book · Download as PDF · Printable version. About The Book. Leaving Las Vegas, the first novel by John O'Brien, is the disturbing and emotionally wrenching story of a woman who. Sera, a surprisingly well-paid hooker from L.A., finds making a living in the squalid streets and casinos of Las Vegas fairly simple, provided that injuries from .

He had already taken a position lying on his back, so she put the rubber on him and, after sucking him for a few minutes, eased herself onto him. Sera felt somehow guilty and offered to secure ten more minutes, but he thanked her and refused.

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He had hardly spoken a word the whole time, and after he was dressed, she let him hug her and kiss her cheek. He tipped her with another hundred and went back to his car.

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The man ejaculates, gripping the mattress with one tense, white fist, Sera with the other. He rolls off of her and lies still, waiting for the turmoil to settle in his body, precious few years away, she guesses, from the time when moments like this will produce in him secret fears, imagined pains in his arm and chest.

Sera, older and more weary than she was in Hollywood, still living in a world that plays in a time window not yet sullied by death-sentence venereal diseases, only occasionally insists on a rubber, relying on her judgment, experience, and instinct to tell her when.

She reaches for a nearby towel and holds it between her legs as she walks to the bathroom. She cleans, dresses, says goodbye before shutting the door. She smiles at her reflection in a polished copper panel until, fully descended, the elevator doors open to the perennial cacophony of the casino. There is a poetry to this noise, and Sera has yet to tire of it.

She looks her part; anyhow, the real mistakes are made in the larger rooms. So it is that a steel-eyed man with long and oft manicured fingernails blocks her path with his well-fed bulk and holds up two black disks.

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One hundred dollar chips, these, held each in its own well-kept hand, speciously and between their noses as if they were tokens of hypnosis. A wry grin on her face, she follows his hands with her eyes and continues to stare at them until the moment becomes protracted and uncomfortable.

He had bought them all that beer, and she had had more than her share. He stopped and looked around at them, all her girlfriends laughing at him, and he took his hand out of his own pants and walked back to the clearing in the front of the park.

Sera was sorry to have ruined things, sorrier still about the look on his face as he left, like he had just gotten beat up. He chats about his last fare and takes her back to the part of the Strip that she likes to work. She, feeling pretty good about finding herself in yet another harmless evening, chats back freely.

This is standard fare, replete with the simple details of breathing and talking, of tasting and swallowing, of washing and drying, of watching and defining.

She can and will do this forever. Rare in her race, rarer still in her class, she touches—even now—the things that others only grasp for futilely at the instant of unavailability. Her grass is very green indeed. And to it she returns as she rises from the cab and glances down the street, only to glimpse the same yellow Mercedes that she noticed earlier. The car backs quickly out of view, leaving behind the urgent echo of hot rubber on pavement and a protesting horn amidst the waning scream of internal combustion.

This is bad news at best, for she once knew a man with a penchant for Mercedes and a proclivity for amateur surveillance, a man lurking in her past, lurking, hopefully, elsewhere.

There is only one other girl in sight, and she was not here earlier, nor does she appear very attentive now. She settles on one more look at the empty space next to the silver camper, and relegating the matter to the back of her mind, she turns her attention back to the business at hand.

After all, this Mercedes—this yellow Mercedes—is not quite in the same league with the very expensive, very tacky, gold-plated German chariots in her past, and it is not at all unusual for girls working the Strip to be watched for hours by nervous men or cheap-thrill masturbators. This is what I say you are!

She wanted it, perhaps, because her experience had taught her that that which begins will also end. Face down, she bit the pillow. He was crying now. There were tears. But she preferred to concentrate on the sensation of warm, flowing blood. It seemed the simpler of the two fluids. The Strip is swinging up, acting up as the midwesterners embrace their newly found early a. His shirt bears the number sixteen—his age minus three, she guesses.

Sera starts to turn away, then pauses to button her blazer. Both hands firmly entrenched in his back pockets, he gestures with his chin to his comrade. She clucks her tongue: the disapproving mother. Sixteen brightens visibly, but catches himself; his earlier boasting has not embarrassed him as he feared it might when they actually came up with the money.

Leaving Las Vegas

How about two hundred for an hour? Though her manner has put him at ease he can hear a quiver in his own voice, and he resolves not to speak anymore. Certainly one of them is, and she bets that this is some sort of ritual for his benefit. They all nod and twelve starts to count out the money to her with a certain dejected resolution.

She stops him with a gesture. They tell her, and it turns out to be a little motel, not far from where they are. You must have some experience with quick showers, right? They walk off giggling. New Releases. Leaving Las Vegas. Description A re-issue of John O'Brien's debut novel, a masterpiece of modern realism about the perils of addiction and love in a city of loneliness.

Leaving Las Vegas, the first novel by John O'Brien, is the disturbing and emotionally wrenching story of a woman who embraces life and a man who rejects it.

Sera is a prostitute, content with the independence and routine she has carved out for herself in a city defined by recklessness. But she is haunted by a spectre in a yellow Mercedes, a man from her past who is committed to taking control of her life again. Ben is an alcoholic intent on drinking his way towards an early death.

Newly arrived from Los Angeles, he survived the four-hour intoxicated drive across the desert with his entire savings in his wallet and nothing else left to lose. Looking to satisfy hungers both material and existential, Ben and Sera stumble together on the strip and discover in each other a respite from their unforgiving lives.

A testimony to the raw talent of its young author, Leaving Las Vegas is a compelling story of unconditional love between two disenfranchised and lost souls - an overlooked American classic. Review Text A brutal and unflinching portrait of the low life in the city of high rollers, Leaving Las Vegas is both shocking and curiously exhilarating. John O'Brien was a stunningly talented writer who created poetry from the most squalid materials.

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This is a beautiful and horrifying novel. Jay McInerney show more.

Just as the character of William is subject to the nearly gravitational pull of Double Felix's house -- he never leaves except to sleep on the balcony -- John was trying to escape his identity in the most profound sense.

This internal fight plays out across the pages of the novel. As Double Felix becomes abusive, William stumbles forward. Sometimes as far away as you can get isn't nearly far enough.

Around the time John was writing "Better," our father invited him to go on a fishing trip with a group of his friends and their sons. He desperately wanted John to attend. He was precariously sober at the time.

I can't drink like that anymore. I can't drink like Dad. Mine will leave me in a shaking hell complete with devils bursting through the walls. This was no small point with John. He told me once there was nothing he wanted more than to be able to drink like our father, to be a heavy drinker like he was, a problem drinker, any kind of drinker who could keep drinking.

John's addiction was one ladder rung up the double helix from that. Make no mistake, the "drinking himself to death" premise of "Leaving Las Vegas" was not autobiographical for John but fantastical: If only he could just keep drinking until the lights went out! It wasn't that easy in reality. Nor was the devastating ejaculation at the end of "Leaving Las Vegas" a sexual expression, but a "final genetic statement" equally symbolic to the last gulp of liquor and the final exhalation that ensued.

Leaving Las Vegas

An interviewer once asked me if there was a reason John committed suicide. I replied, "I imagine John committed suicide because he no longer wanted to live.She stands by him. The Strip is swinging up, acting up as the midwesterners embrace their newly found early a. Ben lets himself die of alcoholism. I could sense so much in the book about how sad and true this whole scenario could be.

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